


fall into your arms

by AliuIce0814



Series: Frank Castle's SHIELDverse [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Punisher (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, F/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, SHIELD is a classy porn studio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 16:29:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12016641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliuIce0814/pseuds/AliuIce0814
Summary: Frank jacks off while thinking of Joan. That's it. That's the whole story.





	fall into your arms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleBird20](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBird20/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Clean](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11926986) by [Not_You](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You). 



> This story comes somewhere between Not_You's "Clean" and "Attack Dogs Are Sweet When You Get To Know Them." 
> 
> I actually have a story or two that will fall between "sunshine in an empty place" and this, but I was so excited to post it that I couldn't wait.

            The air’s cool when Frank climbs out of his truck. He’s glad he made Joan wear a sweater to work, he thinks as he climbs the stairs to the apartment. Now that the sun’s coming up, the rest of the day might be warmer, but Joan’s body can’t circulate heat worth a damn.

            Frank drops the keys on the entertainment stand when he gets inside the apartment. He pauses, considering his next move. He’s off work today; SHIELD’s been dealing with internal drama, and Phil wants very few people in the mix while he sorts it out. Frank gets that, but he’s buzzing with the uncomfortable sense that he isn’t pulling his weight. He feels like that often enough, stripping down to nothing for a living while Joan fights her agoraphobia so she can teach. He doesn’t like earning any less money for her than he already does.

            Without anything better to do, Marine training kicks in. Frank drops into push-ups, a hundred using both hands. The living room carpet is scratchy under his palms. He shakes out his arms, then does twenty-five one-handed. Sweat prickles on his scalp.

            He considers doing crunches next, but he goes for cockroaches instead. Joan always points out that he’s not much of a masochist, but working out is different. He chases the burn of his muscles. He lies on his back and raises his torso and legs, forcing his abs to hold all of his weight. Cockroaches are brutal. By the time he’s finished with them, he’s pouring sweat. It drips into his eyes.

            Frank falls into a workout-induced haze. His body’s going through all of the weight-lifting and stretches on its own. His mind doesn’t wander; it just switches off. When he finally flops on his back on the floor in a warm patch of sun, his muscles are sore and loose. It’s almost like dropping into subspace.

            Frank breathes in and out, taking stock of his body, making sure he didn’t overextend or pull anything. He’s usually careful, but Joan wouldn’t be happy with him if he tore a ligament and then ignored it. Everything feels right—sore, but the kind of low burn that should come with working out. The only thing that’s unexpected is that Frank is hard. Not that that’s a problem.

            Frank rolls to his feet and pads barefoot to the bedroom. The bed’s unmade—he usually takes care of that for Joan before he goes to work. Now, he lies down on her side and presses his face into her pillow. It smells like his aftershave, her makeup remover, and the green apple shampoo they both share. Want curls up, hot, from his stomach. He wishes Joan was home to pin him to the mattress. She’s so damn gentle with him, pressing him down and saying “good boy” in that sweet voice. God. Frank reaches into his sweatpants and curls his fingers around his cock.

            He doesn’t stroke yet. Doesn’t pull. He wants to cup Joan’s breasts in his hands. He wants her to tug his hair, to say, “It’s getting long, you need a trim, oh—” cut off by him sucking her nipples. He wants her to tie his wrists to the bedpost with that soft cloth that sometimes makes him cry. He wants—

            Frank rolls over and digs the lube out of the bedside table. It’s nice, silky, SHIELD-issue stuff. He drops it on the bed beside him and shucks his pants and boxer briefs. One of his fingers is almost as wide as two of Joan’s, and when he slicks it up, it slides into him easily. The angle’s weird. Frank doesn’t do this without Joan. But he wants her, dammit. He breathes in, out, relaxes. In, out, relaxes. He can feel himself loosening up. He takes another breath and works in a second finger.

            Fuck, that’s so good. The angle’s still not great, but he’s full like Joan makes him when she gets that vibrator in him. He could get it out now, but he won’t because that’s hers to use on him. God, he wants. He wants.

            Frank makes noise when Joan’s fucking him, but he’s used to jacking off in military bunks where he has to be quiet. The sound that tears its way out of his throat when he twists his fingers inside of himself startles him. His cock leaks onto his stomach. He wraps his free hand around it again. The slightest pressure makes him gasp. He uses his thumb to rub precum around the head, and he’s close, he’s so close. But coming isn’t urgent, never is, not next to the urgency of wanting Joan. He could lick her open, she likes that, calls him a good boy when he does, lets him suck on her clit while she pets his head.

            Frank flexes the fingers inside of him and pulls along his cock. He turns his face against Joan’s pillow and breathes in the scent of her and him, of both of them, of home. Fuck—

            “Miss,” he gasps to the empty room. Then, forced from him as his sore abs seize up, as he clenches around his own fingers, as he comes: “ _Joan_.”

            Frank’s thighs tremble for a good minute when he’s done. He knows he’s a mess, but he rolls onto his side anyway and buries his face in Joan’s pillow. His body’s warm and heavy.

            When Frank opens his eyes, rain drips from the gutter outside the window. Frank blinks. He feels his sticky stomach and cock and ass and thighs. He groans. He fell asleep? Unbelievable. He’s getting so old. He rolls out of bed and staggers into the bathroom. He leaves the door open while he showers. The room gets too foggy otherwise.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if there are any typos! I was typing this while trying to fend off my puppy, who thinks Dad is an asshole for writing instead of playing with her.


End file.
